


Guest and Host

by wanda von dunayev (wandavon)



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Anal Fingering, Community: skyrimkinkmeme, Galmar Stone-Fist - Freeform, Hero Worship, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Porn With Plot, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Skyrim Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 06:47:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26847649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wandavon/pseuds/wanda%20von%20dunayev
Summary: Following his escape from Helgen, Ralof seals his oath of service to Ulfric Stormcloak.
Relationships: Ralof/Ulfric Stormcloak
Comments: 13
Kudos: 27





	Guest and Host

Ralof does get bathed and clothed following his arrival at the Palace of Kings, just like in the stories. But there’s a lot of tugging, pulling, prodding, and tutting, and the stories haven’t prepared him for that. He grits his teeth and bears it in silence, even when one of the women yanks the knots out of his hair. The ripping sound makes his stomach flip over. He’s seen horses get nicer handling.

It’s been a rough trip from Whiterun hold, and he’s certain he looks more beggar than soldier. It’s a miracle he was even allowed into the palace, particularly since when he appeared before Ulfric he seemed to have no idea who Ralof was until his steward leaned over and said, in an audible whisper, “The soldier from Riverwood, my Jarl. The one you summoned.”

“So I did.” Ulfric sounded unimpressed, as though the topic were boring before they even opened it. “Well, I suppose the roads are impassable at the best of times.”

It’s full dark outside by the time the servants finish washing him, the water in the tub long grown cold. Ralof’s weary enough that he catches himself nodding off despite that. The air is freezing when he steps out of the bath, making his skin tighten and tingle.

Someone’s brought a set of fresh, light armour, and one of the elderly maids straps it onto him. She doesn’t look him in the eyes as she does so.

He returns to the hall; Stone-Fist is there, and a red-haired man, and other Stormcloaks whose faces he recognises, high-ranking from their armour. They are all older than he, all heavily scarred.

He worries that he’s kept them from their meal, but they keep standing when he joins them, and Ulfric is nowhere to be seen. Ralof tries to take a place far from the end of the table, but the steward catches his eye and gestures him closer to the Jarl’s position. An honoured place. He’d prefer to eat with the servants.

Ulfric himself enters a few moments later, unapologetic and effortlessly authoritative as a king—which he is, Ralof corrects himself, he is the rightful king. They wait for him to sit first, then crowd in, jostling elbows.

Ralof sits next to Stone-Fist, which is terrifying in itself, but that’s compounded by the fact that Ulfric is merely two men away at the head. His gaze sweeps over each of them, as if he’s reassuring himself of his ability to arrange allies in their proper places. There’s something in that look, in his narrowed eyes and flared nostrils, that alarms Ralof just a touch. Too appraising, and not a little predatory.

And then the servants bring in the beer and platters and Ralof forgets his worries and remembers his hunger.

Ulfric motions for them to serve themselves and watches as they obey. Even Ralof, unlettered and mannerless as he is, understands the gesture, that Ulfric is letting his warriors eat first from his table.

He sets to, and he is grateful to see he isn’t the only one eating with his hands.

* * *

The warriors talk, but Ralof joins in only occasionally, and only when directly questioned.

Galmar speaks to him more than anyone else, oddly. He asks Ralof of his sister, of Riverwood, of the mill, and of his father. “I knew him,” he says in response to Ralof’s unvoiced question. “Not in person, but by name. How was it he died again? My memory fails me.”  
  
“Hunting,” Ralof says, staring into his plate. The fat has congealed, hardening in the air to a layer of greasy rime. “Hunting wildcats.” Stupid old man. Didn’t he know that there were ten thousand real things for men to spend their lives on?

Ulfric is sucking the marrow out of a bone as he listens to them, his teeth occasionally showing. He looks, Ralof thinks, not so much like the bear that is his family’s symbols, and more like a wildcat himself. The sight of him—his jaw working, his eyes lidded, his lips shining wet—gives Ralof the strangest sensation in the pit of his stomach, a lurch almost like nervousness but that reminds him of something else.  
  
Galmar has mistaken his silence for offense. “Pay no mind to my reminiscences,” he says. “I’m an old man, lost in memories of better days.”  
  
“I wasn’t offended, kinsman,” Ralof says. Ulfric’s presence is distracting him. It’s an undeserved honour, and so it must have some dark meaning. He can feel Ulfric’s eyes move to him and linger, and the gaze seems to cut into him, through him, peeling him open. He fights a shiver. _I pray to Talos I will never be in the position to try deceiving him._  
  
There is a great deal of food, enough food for a village, but the men put a dent into it and little is wasted. When the meal is done they sit around the table for a little longer. The conversation is low and would probably be companionable, only he feels his own presence like an alien splinter.  
  
Ralof does not know how long they are sitting there, but after a time, during a lull in the conversation, Ulfric gestures for the men to listen. “You’ve been welcome at my table, brothers,” he says. His icy gaze flicks over Ralof and then is on to the next Stormcloak. “May it always be so. If I’m to have any say in it, it always will. And now, I must ask that you leave us for a time. We have things to speak of, Ralof of Riverwood and I.”

Ralof goes cold at the sound of his name, but Ulfric is watching the others. They all rise, wiping their mouths with the backs of their hands and wiping their hands on their clothes, mumbling thanks and heading in the direction of what Ralof assumes is another hall. He has seen a handful of the palace’s rooms, and however worn and dark it seems, it must be enormous.  
  
Then it’s just the two of them. Ralof doesn’t know where to look—is it rude to stare the king in the eyes? But avoiding his gaze must be ruder. Ulfric, at least, seems not to notice.

They’re quiet for some time. Ulfric picks up one of the discarded knives, a huge thing used to carve goat-meat, and balances it by its tip against the wood tabletop, the handle pressing against his finger. The light reflecting off the steel flashes into Ralof’s eyes, which he finds rude. Also rude: being confronted with a giant blade six inches from his nose.  
  
“I won’t toy with your intellect,” Ulfric says, still fidgeting. Did Ysgramor fidget? “I have two things to ask of you. First of all, at Helgen, after we parted ways, what became of the Redguard?”  
  
Ralof tells him, how they fled the burning village, how they travelled through passages beneath the keep, how the woman went with Ralof to Riverwood, how he’d spoken of joining the Stormcloaks, how, given her gifts, it might be—  
  
“You suggested a foreigner enter our ranks.” It’s not a question, but at least he’s dropped the knife. Still, the way Ulfric stares at him makes Ralof wonder whether he’s about to get Shouted into the wall.  
  
Is this why he’s been brought here? Has his friend showed up and made a bungle of everything, an endless string of casualties that Ralof will have to pay for? “She seemed skilled, Jarl Ulfric. And a strong sword can contribute to the cause.”  
  
“And a strong heart,” Ulfric says, but he doesn’t seem angry, merely thoughtful. “It may have been more fortuitous than you know. If it was fortuitous at all, that is.”  
  
Ralof doesn’t understand.

“Never mind. We’ll all learn more in due time.” He rises, readjusting his fur so it covers his shoulders fully. “You seem cold. Shall we walk?”  
  
“As my Jarl wishes.” Only as he says it does he realise Ulfric has not asked the second thing. It hangs between them, unvoiced.  
  
Ulfric doesn’t wait for Ralof, merely heads towards one of the doors at the far side of the hall, leaving Ralof to stumble after him. Ulfric is tall and broad-shouldered, but he is graceful, easy in his motions. Next to him Ralof feels gangly as a colt.  
  
He is about to ask, _What is the other question?_ , but Ulfric interrupts his thoughts as they pause before a set of huge iron doors, his hand against the grillwork. “Is this your first time in Windhelm? If I recall, you joined the cause in Whiterun.”  
  
Ralof stands a long, expectant moment before he realises that Ulfric is waiting for him to open the door. He does so, straining a little with the weight. “Yes, my Jarl. And it is my first time here.”  
  
“What do you think?”  
  
Ralof follows him to find that they are standing in a long corridor, lit only with torches, sloping upwards. He can tell from the smoothness of the stone, the way the gaps in the masonry don’t show, that this part of the castle must be ancient. Both the question and the passage seem like traps.

“I haven’t had much chance to see it, unfortunately.” That’s appropriately evasive, isn’t it?

Ulfric does not look at him as they walk. “It is the most beautiful city in Skyrim, and the most difficult to live in. We have few travellers. It has… a certain self-contained strength.” He smiles into the shadows and looks for a moment almost wistful. “But I am biased. Every Jarl loves his hold most, and thinks his land the greatest.”  
  
“If you say it is great,” Ralof says, “then I am certain it is great, Jarl Ulfric.”  
  
Ulfric turns to look at him, but Ralof does not get to see his expression; they have stepped into a long walkway that juts from the side of the palace seemingly, surrounded on all sides by windows that show endless lines of mountain. Eastmarch appears to hang leagues beneath the two of them, almost invisible in the dark.  
  
“This way,” Ulfric says, guiding him with a gentle but insistent hand. “I have a destination in mind. You’ll just have to trust me.”  
  
 _I do_ , Ralof thinks, then feels stupid. He should trust no one, least of all a Jarl known for his scheming. He evidently has plans for Ralof he feels no great rush to share. If Ulfric is a wildcat, Ralof is a dumb lamb that has ambled into his den.

They walk at a comfortably brisk pace—Ralof is long-legged and used to out-stepping most of his companions, so it's a nice change to find someone who can keep up with him—and the silence between them, which should be tense with the difference in their positions, is companionable until Ulfric breaks it.

“You were ready to die at the border.” It isn’t a question, so Ralof does not immediately answer. “When we were ambushed. I could tell by the ferocity with which you fought.”  
  
“I… your life was at stake, my Jarl.”  
  
Ulfric shrugs; Ralof can feel the brush of his fur cloak against his shoulder and is surprised by how close together they are walking. “Your fighting made no difference to that. It was clear they outnumbered us.”  
  
“I wanted to die with honour.” The conversation is like a wound he can’t reach to probe.  
  
“Fairly said,” Ulfric says. He doesn’t sound convinced. “Your courage was to be admired. It’s not often one meets a young man truly unafraid of death.”  
  
Ralof shifts. “In Helgen, my Jarl, not so much.”  
  
To his surprise Ulfric laughs, a sound that is surprisingly attractive. “I’m not certain standing toe-to-toe with a dragon is best called ‘courage’. Perhaps lunacy.”  
  
They turn down a long hallway, another wall entirely covered in windows. Metal grates are drawn over them here, thick slats that keep out the moonlight save for where it cuts across the floor. It reminds him of winter mornings in Riverwood, when his father would wake him before the sun rose. Sometimes the moon would still be up, and his breath would steam the air and hang in sparkles, and he would clap his hands to scatter them.

“I’ve always had a bit of that in me,” Ralof says, remembering. “When I was just a lad, Gerdur and I used to swim across the river and climb the cliffs that led to the barrow. We used to play chicken, to see who was bravest.”  
  
He realises he is talking to the Jarl of Windhelm, the future High King, who certainly does not care about his childhood games, and he clamps his mouth shut.  
  
But Ulfric is watching him as if fascinated. “Go on,” he says. “I’m listening.”

“Well,” Ralof says, regretting bringing it up, “we would climb up the rocks, and whoever was willing to climb the highest before giving up won.”  
  
“And you were always champion?”  
  
Ralof lifts one of his shoulders. “Often it was her. She was a fierce lass. Still is.”  
  
“I did something similar when I was a lad, before I went to study.” There’s a glint of mischief in Ulfric’s eyes. “Years and years ago. I used to try and scale the walls of the city. My mother hided me every time, but it was to no end. Warriors are not so easily vanquished.”  
  
Ralof gives him a weak smile. He knows that this must be a trick, something they teach to rulers, or perhaps something that a ruler just instinctively knows, to talk to his men, to be ever-so-slightly like them.  
  
And still, knowing it is a ploy, knowing that the whole damn evening is a ploy for something, he can’t help feeling like he’s in a song himself. The hero, sung and celebrated.  
  
“I want to promote you,” Ulfric says, “to captain.”  
  
Ralof stops midstep before he realises this and lowers his foot. Of all the things he has expected coming here, this is not it. _I don’t want to be captain._  
  
“Don’t accept immediately,” Ulfric continues. “It’s an honour I do you, yes, but not a favour. Your duties will be hard. Not as hard as Helgen, though.”  
  
He pauses then, as if undecided. The long windows are gone; they are standing at the foot of a flight of stairs that lead upwards. When they pass beneath the archway that leads to the stairwell, the ceiling is so low Ralof nearly has to stoop and the stone is stained soot black. Everything is dark and silent.

When Ulfric glances around there’s a flash of something vulnerable in his eyes that reminds Ralof more of a new recruit than a Jarl with his subject. But it’s gone just as quickly, and Ulfric gestures at the stairs.

“Up here,” he says. His voice is low. “Even in my keep, the walls have ears. Better for us to talk privately and freely, one man to another.”

* * *

When they reach the door to his private quarters they hesitate, both of them, at the same time. Then Ulfric turns away from him almost peevishly and wrenches the door open.  
  
Stepping into his chambers feels like crossing some enchanted boundary. It’s dreamlike, but unexpectedly real, too: Ulfric’s table is set with a few slices of sweating cheese, crusty bread, and dried fish. A few books are tossed, open and spine-up, onto his desk, though Ralof’s reading is not good enough that he can discern their titles.

There’s a fur tossed over his bed. It looks worn and soft, and Ralof thinks of it and the bed, warmed with his naked body as he sleeps. He thinks this, and then he thinks he’s stupid and preoccupied with one thing like Gerdur always says men are, and he blushes.

“If you want something to drink, I can have someone fetch it for you,” Ulfric is saying. He has his hands folded on the back of a chair, as if he does not know what else to do with them. “Mead? Or wine?”  
  
Ralof ducks his head. “I am well, my Jarl. Really.”  
  
He can feel Ulfric studying him, his gaze almost fierce, and he looks away towards the mantle, into the grate where the fire roars and crackles. What does he say now? What does he do? If left up to him he’s fairly certain they’ll stand there until time ends and the castle collapses.  
  
The chair beside him creaks; Ulfric has seated himself and is gazing up at Ralof with a look that is at once fatherly and predatory. Yes. He can name the sensation, can give it its place and its title, can give it its category. He is brave enough to confront it, now, the real reason he is here.  
  
 _No. The real reason is to make me a captain, and I_ earned _that title! The gods know I have!_ He doesn’t have to suck a Jarl off to get it. He can get it on his own. _Do you want to suck the Jarl off anyway, though?_  
  
"Are you certain you desire nothing?" Ulfric says.  
  
 _I desire something_ , Ralof thinks, but he is afraid to say that aloud, though he knows it would be clever and a bolder man would. He shakes his head, no, and turns back to the fire. If only Ulfric would stay sitting a little longer. If only he hadn't come.  
  
 _Don't lie. You wanted to come. Want this._ This. Whatever _this_ is. Not a title. It is something that goes with it, something that is in songs, something that is joked about. Crass and crude.  
  
The chair creaks again and Ulfric stands. Ralof feels his presence behind him, feels every one of his movements as if they are touching. He is a magnificent swordsman, Ralof had noticed that at Helgen, and the gracefulness of his gestures seems coiled with danger.  
  
"You're distracted," he says. "I can tell. Why? What troubles you? Do you not wish for the commendation?"  
  
The idea makes Ralof wince—has Ulfric seen into him so clearly? "No, my Jarl, forgive me—not that. It is not that at all."  
  
"Then what?" Ulfric's voice is unreadable. Whatever he is, whatever world they're currently in, Ralof cannot forget that he is a Jarl facing a wayward servant.  
  
 _Whatever he wants, he can have. If he wishes it._ The idea makes the sweat on his skin—from the fire or from the Jarl, he cannot tell where it comes from or why—grow cold, until he shivers.  
  
Ulfric’s body is strong; Ralof can discern the tense and flicker of muscles, so close together do they stand. He can smell the oils in Ulfric's hair, the mead they drank, and he wonders whether he can get drunk from it, from the smell.  
  
"Not afraid, I hope." Ulfric's voice is friendly again, but quieter now. "Why should you be?"

Ralof says nothing. It would dishonour him more to lie than to admit to being a coward. If cowardice is what this strangeness is.  
  
"Hm. Why, indeed." Ulfric grips one of his arms, near the shoulder, and gives him a rub. It is nothing more than a brief pat, like a father with a child, but Ralof's skin turns against him again, this time to stinging fire. “Is it me you fear?”  
  
Ralof looks down at his own hands. “I do fear you, my Jarl.” _Like facing a dragon, actually_. “It would be foolish not to fear a Jarl.”  
  
If Ulfric finds this response odd he gives no sign of it. Instead, he places his hand on Ralof’s back, low, near the small of it but not quite in it. It is an intimate touch, nothing like a father’s this time, and he feels his body straining in answer, even while he curses himself for his weakness. _The High King he will be one day! Get some damned control!_  
  
“How old are you, Ralof of Riverwood?”  
  
“Twenty-six, my Jarl.” The words come out breathy, weak.  
  
Ulfric draws in a sharp inhalation. “Young.” His hand is moving in circles on Ralof’s back, gentle, but he can feel the muscle behind it, and it makes him quiver. “But not too young. You’re hardly a green boy.”  
  
 _I am a loyal soldier_ , he thinks. Somehow, he does not think that that is what Ulfric means.  
  
“Still.” Ulfric’s hand pauses, his fingers flexing as they knead away a knot. “My men and I must seem fairly ancient in comparison. Gods, I remember being twenty-six.”  
  
“When you liberated the Reach,” Ralof says.  
  
“Yes.” Ulfric’s voice, always dark, has turned darker. “That would have been the year. Never mind. I’m sick unto death of talking about it.”  
  
Ralof says quietly, “I’m sick of it, too. I don’t like killing.”  
  
“Good. And if the gods are kind, you never will.” Ulfric pauses in his motions for half a second, then resumes his rubbing. “What I wonder is—can I trust you in this?” Even speaking so softly Ulfric’s voice rumbles, his chest expanding against Ralof’s back. “With commitment, discretion, obedience.”  
  
Ralof inhales, tastes wet wood and smoke. Of course, it must be hard to get good timber all the way up here where it is always damp, turning from blizzard to fog to rain, one wet season after another. _Stop thinking about lumber. Ysmir._ “What would you ask of me, Jarl Ulfric?"

“I need you to go south. To Falkreath. There are some unfortunate happenings we must have sorted out, and I cannot send any agent. It must be someone reliable.”  
  
A military convoy might take a month to march there by foot from Windhelm. _And Gerdur needs me in the mill, she has said. Soon winter will come in full and Hod cannot clear away the wolves by himself._  
  
“I don’t wish to become a captain.” He has to force the words out; he terrifies himself with them. “With all my respect and gratitude, my Jarl. But my family needs me in Riverwood.”  
  
“You won’t take it?” He can feel the frown in Ulfric’s voice, and it makes his pulse quicken. “You will refuse this boon?”  
  
Ralof wants to protest. He’s just a man from a village in Whiterun Hold, a woodcutter’s son by a woman he didn’t wed. He’s meant to fight, to gather his scars, to marry some quiet girl with blue eyes and have children, to grow old in Riverwood and steer clear of excitement and disasters and rugged landscape of a war-hero’s life.  
  
Not become a captain or a leader. Not become a king’s… whatever. Whatever the word is.

He flexes his fingers. “I will continue to serve as the most loyal of your soldiers, my Jarl.”  
  
“The most loyal?” The exhalation against his ear might be meant as a laugh. “You would have to do much to earn that designation, you realise.”  
  
“I realise so, my Jarl. Galmar Stone-Fist has served for years and is a hero. I admire him.”  
  
“Do you?” The question sounds sarcastic. Then: “Go south, Ralof of Riverwood. Serve your Jarl there. Galmar I need elsewhere.”  
  
“Please, my Jarl—”  
  
“Later,” Ulfric says softly. “We’ve chatted enough, and you’re doubtless tired. We’ll speak of this tomorrow.” And then, very carefully, as if he is handling a dangerous trap that might go off in his hands, he presses his fingers to Ralof’s waist, bends his palm around the curve of hipbone.  
  
The current that travels from his throat to his groan is like a tug of muscle, like a response to a string Ulfric holds and with which he controls Ralof like a puppet. His hands would be shaking were they not balled into fists.

He must be sweating, but his skin feels cold as stone. It’s hard to get the air into his lungs, as if he’s clambered up the face of a mountain. _The High King. My Jarl. My brother. I cannot. But I want to. But I can’t. I would shame him. And he would shame me._  
  
Ulfric’s fingers are at the gap in the fabric of his armour, the hole in his linen shirt that is always opening no matter how many times Gerdur mends it. When Ralof feels the touch of his gloves at his waist, fur against skin, he gasps, then clamps his mouth shut and blushes. What would Gerdur say of this? To know that he is with Ulfric Stormcloak— _with_ Ulfric Stormcloak?  
  
Ulfric Stormcloak, who freezes, mid-motion, as if only just then realizing what they are doing. Has it been a game to him all this time? Perhaps he only now feels what Ralof is feeling, the frightful reality of the whole thing, the crass lifelikeness: the chipped cups, the sooty fireplace, the sweat on his forehead, under his arms.

“Don’t feel you must,” Ulfric says. “Let me be clear. I give no such commands, to anyone.”

Ralof turns. He means to say that he can’t do this, but they are very close together, so close that Ralof can see where the firelight makes flecks of blood red in Ulfric’s eyes, the strands of gray in his hair, blond like ashes. Then their lips move together, and he can feel Ulfric’s breath stirring the hairs on his face.

When they kiss it is no surprise at all, but definitely unlike the other kisses he has had in his life: rougher, scraping where their chapped lips meet, hard where Ulfric’s calloused fingers dig into his jaw, and where Ulfric’s beard scrapes his face.  
  
It is not necessarily what he intended, but it is also far from unpleasant. His mouth opens and Ulfric’s tongue is pressing past his lips. His own body feels heavy and buoyant at once, and he seems to stand outside himself, watching as he kisses the true high king, kissing a goddamned _king_ , watching as his hands rise to grip Ulfric’s shoulders.  
  
They break apart at this. Ralof can hear someone breathing hard, and though it must be him—Ulfric is trained in the Voice, a servant of Kyne—he feels perfectly calm, perfectly normal, like this is a scene from his everyday life, and not something taken directly out of one of Ysgramor’s sagas.

 _Ysgramor and Bjorn the Bold_ , he thinks, suddenly, remembering the story. The king and his warrior-lover. And why not? Ulfric was descended from the one; why not he from the other? Maybe. Maybe.  
  
“You’re smiling,” Ulfric says. He sounds almost relieved. “What is it?”  
  
“I’ll tell you later, my Jarl,” Ralof says. Then they are facing each other, and Ralof can see, at last, the expression that his Jarl wears. It’s perfectly blank.  
  
“Serve your king, then,” Ulfric says, and tugs Ralof forwards, arms still wrapped around him. They kiss again, and this time he feels it, definitely, and the bristle of beard, the strong hard hands on him, seems like scratching an itch he never knew he had. He leans into the embrace, his mouth opening a little. 

Ulfric’s hands slide over his side, down his hips, to his belt and then slip across his belt, the front of his pants, the bulge of his cock, already hard (embarrassing). When Ulfric runs his fingers across it, tracing the length almost idly, Ralof has to bite his lip.  
  
“Turn around,” Ulfric says, guiding him by the hips. “Face the fireplace. Good.” Ulfric’s fingers, which have paused in their movement, resume now, stroking him through his pants. Ralof closes his eyes, feeling as if his entire life has concentrated to this one point: Ulfric’s hands on him, caressing him.

 _This is insanity,_ he thinks. It’s a broken thought, half-formed.  
  
Ulfric reaches down with his other hand and begins tugging at them. Ralof feels himself straining against the leather, painful. The struggle seems to take an eternity, and when his erection finally springs free, Ulfric tugging his pants lower on his hips, he bites his lip hard enough that his eyes water.  
  
“Good lad,” Ulfric might say, or maybe “I’m glad”—Ralof’s pulse is thundering in his ears and it makes him deaf to the world. When Ulfric takes him in hand, his strong, callused palm and fingers wrapping around Ralof’s length, he cannot bite back his groan. The noise is humiliating, and the humiliation is arousing.  
  
His body is burning—the fire on one side, Ulfric on the other—and as Ulfric begins to stroke him, slowly, a wave of pleasure shakes him from toe to neck. He closes his eyes; he does not want to see himself in Ulfric’s hands, half naked. His lips part and he moves his mouth, silently.

He leans back, putting his weight on Ulfric, turning his head away to keep from having to look into his eyes. He is afraid of what he’ll see there—possession, triumph, mockery? The motion of Ulfric’s hand at his cock, a slight squeeze at the base as it to say, _pay attention to me,_ makes him shudder, limbs slack and then tensing again, his back straining. He fights the urge to thrust in Ulfric’s palm, remaining as still as he can, though he wants to plead.  
  
With his other hand, Ulfric cups his balls, gives them a slight squeeze. His knees threaten to buckle, but he catches himself. If it is torture, it is a blissful one.

 _I thought it was a different love,_ he thinks, _but I suppose they’re all the same thing in the end._ And he twists against Ulfric—my King—feeling a strange crushing feeling. Sadness and joy the same.  
  
“Say that again.” Ulfric’s voice is strained, as if he’s the one who’s being touched. “’My King’.”  
  
Ralof obeys. He hears Ulfric’s breath hitch, and then he is thrusting, his hips working frantically, desperate for release. But he is interrupted.

“Enough.” Ulfric withdraws his hands suddenly, mid-stroke, and Ralof wants to punch him. He feels each beat of his heart in his cock and balls, swollen and twitching. He thinks he has never ached so badly, been so hungry for a touch. The feel of Ulfric’s mouth on his flesh even once would be enough to make him finish in this state.

 _Please_ , he thinks, _please take me, anything, anything, I am yours, just release me._  
  
“Good lad.” Ulfric strokes his cheek. “Undress, and get in the bed. I’ll satisfy you there.”  
  
It is a testament to how far gone he is that he does not hesitate or stop to wonder where this is leading. He strips off his pants quickly, so quickly that one leg turns inside out and he stumbles. His mail Ulfric has to help him with, wrenching at the straps, and as he does so he gives Ralof a slap on the backside hard enough to make him cry out, though it’s not a noise he makes in pain. He can feel Ulfric’s eyes on him as he pulls his undershirt over his head, and he wonders whether the look is approving, perhaps even hungry. The thought of it makes him bite his lip and blush—blush now!—despite everything.  
  
He does not look back at Ulfric when he has undressed, just slips into the massive bed. The fur slides soft against his skin, a caress against his back, his buttocks, pleasant save for where it brushes against his erection: it is almost painfully intense then, and he shudders and twists onto his side.  
  
Ulfric stands beside the bed. He’s taken off his cloak and pulls the chainmail over his head, undoes the buttons of his jerkin, slips off the linen beneath. Ralof watches this, his mouth so dry the roof of it itches.

When he is naked Ulfric draws the fur off and leans over him. His muscles are hard as sea-ice. Ralof rolls onto his back so that they are facing each other, lets his head fall back against the pillow, and writhes beneath him, no longer caring about pride and good Nord behavior.  
  
“Ah, my wildcat.” Ulfric reaches down and sweeps his hand down Ralof’s chest, nails briefly brushing against the blond hair there. “Perhaps I’ll send you home like this,” he says. There is heat in his eyes. “I like you like this, so desperate. I wonder what you would do if I tied you up and kept you in my bed and never touched you once.”  
  
Ralof thrusts his hips upwards; his cock brushes against Ulfric’s stomach. “You wouldn’t dare.”  
  
“I would, and will.” He kisses Ralof’s forehead. “But not tonight. I did give my word.”

His nails are pressing into Ralof’s throat, biting and sharp, probably sharp enough to draw blood.

“Roll over,” Ulfric says. “Onto your stomach.”

Ralof obeys. _What a pet I’ve become_ , he thinks. It is all inward bluster. He doesn’t care.  
  
He feels the calloused pads of Ulfric’s thumbs brush against his lower back. The touch is light, almost timid, and if he closes his eyes and forgets where he is he might be able to persuade himself that it has a certain reverence..

“You’ve some striking marks,” Ulfric murmurs, drawing his hands lower on Ralof’s body. Ralof can imagine his Jarl above him, naked and golden, hair tousled a little as if from sleep, perhaps leaning forwards, the muscles of his shoulders tense. His hand squeezes the flesh of Ralof’s buttocks and he tenses immediately, but already Ulfric is moving lower, fingers rolling over tendons, muscles he cannot relax. A sign of his fear, but if Ulfric notices he says nothing of it.  
  
The touching pauses, and Ralof feels Ulfric’s weight over him, and he lies still. He is surprised by how cornered he feels, how vulnerable, but it is nothing to the flare of panic that flashes through him, suddenly, when Ulfric presses his fingers to the cleft of his ass and Ralof finds the digits slippery.  
  
Ulfric seems to be tracing a path only he knows—it is a familiarity with his body that Ralof finds both presumptuous and touching. He tries to peer over his shoulder. “What are you doing?”  
  
“I won’t hurt you,” Ulfric says, and Ralof falls silent. “I promise you. Trust me.” The second time that night he’s said so.  
  
“You know that I do.” But he shuts his eyes anyway. The feeling is strange and embarrassing and good—strange and embarrassing because it is so good, and there is surely something wrong with this, or at least with the fact that he is accepting it so calmly.  
  
His body seems to flash hot and numb, and his cock aches as Ulfric works his hands down the cleft of his ass, rubbing the skin with a warrior’s brisk, demanding touch. When Ulfric’s fingers pass over his asshole, he bites into the fur to keep from crying out, feeling himself give before the intrusion. Beneath his eyelids, the light is red and black and starburst white when he glances towards the fire. His back arches into Ulfric’s hand, his hips working. He feels a third finger pressing into him.

The sensation of the fingers inside him is unbearably, deliciously other, like nothing else in his experience, and he wriggles lower on the bed, trying to urge them deeper inside him, to take more in.  
  
But Ulfric pulls his fingers back and slides his hands once more over his ass and down. Ralof feels more of the oil dripping onto his thighs before Ulfric rubs it in, taking his time, the strength in his hands evident with each motion. It tickles, the skin sensitive, and so close to his aching cock that he grits his teeth and shifts his hips backwards, seeking out and moving away from the sensation at once. The oil must be running down onto the fur, ruining it, but Ulfric does not seem to care.

Ulfric’s motions still. And when he feels Ulfric moving to loom over him, feels the tension in his body, the way his arms quake, though they are not touching.

“Push your knees together,” Ulfric says, and as if afraid Ralof can’t perform such a basic task Ulfric grips his legs and arranges them. The head of Ulfric’s cock presses against the space between his thighs, warm and hard and snug, also, blessedly, slippery. “Don’t fear,” he says into Ralof’s hair. “You will enjoy this, I promise.”  
  
 _So many promises!_ But the thought it interrupted as Ulfric slides against him, his length slipping just a bit below Ralof’s balls, inch by heated inch. It is a thrust of surprising strength, almost punishing, and for a moment of pure panic, he thinks he’s going to come from the friction of his own cock rubbing the fur.

He takes himself in hand, thrusting upwards despite himself to meet the motion of Ulfric’s hips, feeling more than hearing himself gasp. The sensation of Ulfric fucking his thighs is not pleasurable the way touching himself is, but it’s intimate, and Ulfric seems to enjoy it, trembling, his grip on Ralof’s waist like iron bands, and with each jerk of his hips he grunts. Ralof hears the slap of skin on skin. On his lips he can taste blood.

The pace is swift and intense, and after a few moments, when he gets uncomfortable, he shifts his weight back a little; on the next thrust Ulfric’s cock slides against his and his insides constrict. After that Ralof presses his face into the sheets and whimpers like he’s in a brothel. And as Ulfric presses against him, spreading his ass cheeks between his rough hands, rubbing their cocks together, he thinks, _Yes, yes, I wanted this, wanted to be used like this._  
  
They cannot last long, either of them, though Ralof cannot guess how much time passes; the minutes seem interminable, and though his eyes are open, staring, he cannot see. Ulfric reaches around to stroke him as well, rubbing him more quickly than he is thrusting, and the pressure that builds in his balls spills out in a torrent—he sees white, and his entire body spasms, limp and soft around the line of exquisite hardness. He wishes the orgasm to never end.

“Tense yourself as you did before,” Ulfric tells him. His voice is breathy, strange, and Ralof obeys. He thrusts a few more times, sporadically, his motions almost jerky, and then with a strangled noise _(I should be lucky it wasn’t a ‘Fus’)_ he shakes and finishes, coming onto the fur. His climax seems to last a long time, but when it is done he collapses against Ralof, his beard scratching the skin of Ralof’s back.

“Mind rolling over?” His voice sounds strange to his ears, and when Ulfric gives him a questioning look he says, weakly, “In a bit of a damp spot, here.”

To his surprise, Ulfric laughs and rises. When he returns he’s carrying a wash basin, and, still grinning, he hands the damp cloth to Ralof.

“I would never so insult a guest,” Ulfric says, one corner of his mouth lifting. It seems less mocking, and more like genuine mirth, and Ralof cannot help but smile too.

* * *

Afterwards they lie quiet, though Ralof does not think Ulfric is asleep either. The light flickers over his body, highlighting the crevices, the old scars, the notches from fights that happened before Ralof was born. The thought is humbling, and he looks around him, unsettled. The banner of the Stormcloaks hangs above them, barely discernable in the semidarkness.  
  
“Is this where all the Jarls of Windhelm kept their private quarters?” he asks.  
  
Ulfric pushes himself up on his elbows and peers into Ralof’s face, as if not quite sure what to make of this. “No. It isn’t. The Jarls’ Chambers are in another wing. Why?”  
  
“It would be too odd to share a bed with one’s ancestors,” he says, feeling more himself than since he came to this place. “It would be… heavy.”  
  
“It’s a weight I know well.” He grips Ralof’s shoulders and strokes them. “Relax. No ghosts will watch you here.”  
  
It is the closest thing to ‘tender’ Ulfric has been to him all night, and it makes his chest suddenly relax, as if with sudden thaw, becoming lighter. He reaches for Ulfric’s face, traces a long scar that reaches from just above his jaw to below his eye. The lines are neat, methodical, as if placed by a doctor or an artist.

The fire dwindles, the air is chill, and Ralof’s skin rises in goosebumps, sensitive where Ulfric runs his hands over it again. Outside, far away, up the mountain, a wolf howls; the sound is incongruous against the closer snap of embers in the grate.  
  
“Would you have me again?” Ralof asks. He means sometime in the future, a distant date when their paths cross once more. Already the night seems to have concluded to him, a sweet memory long ago relinquished, too easily and too soon.  
  
But Ulfric smiles. “I would have you as many times as you could bear. But I’m an old man, now. If I were six-and-twenty as well, yes. I would.” He smoothes the hair back from Ralof’s forehead. There’s a crease of skin around his ring when he flexes his fingers, like he’s gained weight. “You ought to sleep.”

Ulfric is warm—the man generates heat like a bonfire onto himself—and he throws one of his arms across Ralof’s shoulders,a little uncomfortable. He keeps the thought to himself. It’s a good lesson to learn, though perhaps it has come a little late. His eyelids are heavy, and it makes the silence easier to hold.  
  
He mustn’t doze for long, perhaps only a few moments, because when he wakes Ulfric is leaning over him. There’s the faintest trace of a smile on his lips, and his head is thrown back, his eyes lidded. The whole effect is to make him look as if he calculating, measuring.

It is not a particularly kind or affectionate look, and yet Ralof knows it, and loves him for it. _Even in this he was possessed of himself, as a king must be._  
  
“Ysgramor,” he says, and strokes Ulfric’s hair. “And I’m Bjorn.”  
  
Ulfric’s smile grows; he likes the comparison. It’s not an unfit one. He is still composed and kingly despite his disarray and undress. “You know that tale, then.”

What is he thinking? Like a well-tumbled milkmaid after her first time, her head awash with Companions and princes. _A Jarl desired his subject, and his subject was had. I am no hero—I am a miller’s brother from Riverwood. Bedded and beaten._  
  
“You seem spent,” Ulfric says. “In more than the usual sense. You can stay here, if you wish.”  
  
To sleep in a Jarl’s bed—it’s enough to make him want to laugh. The bed is large enough for a whole peasant family, and the fur, though worn, is obviously rich. Ralof feels more like a boy cuddled in beside his father than a well-sated lay. “Won’t the others—”  
  
“There’s a passage to the guest quarters,” Ulfric says. “How do you think the lords of old got their hands on their thanes’ wives?”  
  
“Or their thanes,” Ralof says.  
  
“I think they didn’t often bother to conceal that fact in particular.” But Ulfric is grinning—he seems to find Ralof amusing, if nothing else. The peasant-jester. _I am too proud. I, who have no name, no money, no birth to boast of. I should be honoured to have received his attentions, even for such a short space._  
  
But then, everyone knows that a king can bed a maid or a clothier, and it is nothing to smile at, nothing to make one sigh. As glamorous as using the privy. As sordid.

Ralof burrows further into the bedding, but though Ulfric seems to drop off quickly (he must be used to having near-strangers in his bed), he feels a strangeness settle over him, heavy and invasive as a strange hand on his body. _No ghosts will watch you here._ He hopes to Talos it is true.  
  
He sleeps, but fitfully. Once he sits up in a haze of panic, not knowing where he is—but then he remembers, and his entire body seems to come alive at the recollection. And another time he wakes, and before dropping off again has the lucidity to think: _I don’t wish to leave. I don’t wish this moment to have its end._  
  
It’s still pitch black when Ulfric stirs against him, throwing his arm around Ralof as if he’s some whore picked up at a village inn. “Did you sleep well, brother?”  
  
“Yes,” Ralof lies. He has been tossing and turning the entire night, and he is certain it shows on his face. _Nothing a bit of cold water won’t cure, though, and a brisk ride through the mountains._  
  
The mountains. And then he remembers—the discussion of the previous night. Ulfric’s order disguised as an offer; his refusal. Was he offered the title to be bedded, or bedded to make the title more appealing?  
  
The idea that his Jarl is capable of such low scheming should shame him, but now he only feels dread. Men have said so of him—that he is power-hungry and ruthless and calculating, that he loves himself more than the gods or Skyrim or her sons.

Ralof watches him as he slips into his clothing—a fresh shirt from the closet, with the pelt over it. He does not ask for help, and Ralof does not offer it.  
  
 _If he asks me now, I will be able to refuse._  
  
But Ulfric must know this, somehow, because he does not ask, not even when they part at the entrance to the passage that will lead him to the guest chambers—the chambers he has supposedly been within all night.  
  
“Get into your bed,” Ulfric says. “Roll around a little. Make it look like you’ve slept there: kick the sheets, drop a pillow on the floor, have some of the food, rifle through the books. We will meet downstairs for breakfast within the hour.”  
  
He seems to understand this method of deception intimately. Ralof does not like to linger over that. He squints ahead to avoid meeting Ulfric’s eyes, and scurries down the tunnel.

* * *

Breakfast is not as much an affair as dinner, something for which Ralof is grateful. The other soldiers do not show up. Neither does Ulfric, so they are alone, Ralof and Jorleif and Stone-Fist.

Ralof keeps his face lowered to his fried sausages as the other two talk, afraid to look at Galmar. He is glad to have done what he did, but if Galmar should know, if he should even think that Ralof fucked his way into the offer rather than coming by it honestly, that would shame him.  
  
Breakfast concludes more swiftly than dinner, too. Galmar sits back when his plate has been demolished, drumming his fingers on the table and studying Ralof with a wolfish grin.  
  
“So I take it you were given your grand news,” he says. “A captain, eh, lad?”  
  
He knows this, and with it comes the question— _what else does he know?_ Ralof opens his mouth to answer, but his lips feel bloodless. A few seconds pass, but they are enough. Galmar’s brow furrows; his eyes turn distant.  
  
“You did not refuse, surely,” he says.  
  
Ralof quails but thinks he hides it well. “I… My sister, Gerdur, needs me. At home, to help with the wood. Winter is a bad time for the mill.”  
  
For such a big and boisterous man, Galmar is possessed of a remarkably piercing gaze. He turns it on Ralof, and there is such intelligence and understanding in it that Ralof is certain he is seen. He imagines himself as he must have looked the previous night, face-down, spread-eagled in Ulfric’s furs. But though his body fills with heat, he does not think it’s from shame alone.  
  
Galmar is oblivious to this, though. “She needs you indeed, my boy, but not as you have said. She needs her brave brother fighting for her honour in the south.”  
  
 _Her honour?_ He wants to laugh. _I can barely protect my own. Better that Gerdur should defend the both of us_. “Victory will not serve her if she dies of the cold, sir.”  
  
“Hm. I suppose that is so.” Galmar’s lips curl downwards. “Have you told Jarl Ulfric as much?”  
  
“We discussed it, briefly.” So briefly, before other things intervened. “He told me to think it over.”  
  
“And you have.” Galmar looks him up and down, assessing him and no doubt finding him wanting. “Well, well, we cannot have everything we want in life.”  
  
Ralof does not think this is a lesson that Ulfric is partial to learning, but he nods.  
  
“Ah, and look,” Galmar says, nodding at the doors. “Here he comes. What timing!”  
  
They both rise, Ralof in the grip of a terrible embarrassment. It was one thing to dress together and then part. Here, in the palace’s great hall, both of them back in the places of their everyday life, the previous night is banal and crude.  
  
“Good morning, my Jarl,” Galmar says. The title sounds ironic, perhaps because of his age. “I trust you slept well?”  
  
Ralof would have given himself away at a similar question, but Ulfric merely shrugs. “Well as I can these days, I suppose.”  
  
“Yes,” Galmar says, and there is no mistaking his irony now. “Young Ralof of Riverwood and I were discussing as much.”  
  
Ulfric glances at him. “And? What was it you decided?”  
  
The words are on his lips, they are, but then Ulfric moves to sit his throne, and the murky sunlight falls over him, making the gold and grey in his hair shine. He is dressed again as he always is, a proud Jarl of a proud hold, clothed in the ancient way. A crown would suit him well, but he needs none: he is unmistakably, wholly, perfectly a king. But he’s also older than he’d seemed in candlelight, lines framing his eyes and mouth.

He knows what this feeling is, so intense it is like a lance of pain. He does not need to name it. He knows.  
  
 _This is madness. You have duties elsewhere, and little military experience._ _This is_ exactly _as he planned._  
  
He inclines his head a little and glances at Galmar. “I hope you will both forgive me. I was indecisive.”  
  
One of Ulfric’s eyebrows rises. “Oh? A change of heart, is it?”  
  
And all Ralof can say, terrified at his own daring, is, “Yes.”  
  
“I am quite pleased to hear that, then.” Ulfric flashes a smile, but he and Galmar are looking at each other, satisfied. Have they conspired the whole thing together—the travel, the dinner, the night? The thought makes Ralof queasy.  
  
“Good lad!” is all Galmar says, though. He seems pleased, but not surprised.  
  
And this does not really surprise Ralof, either.

* * *

They brief him in the war room, the three of them leaning together over a map of Skyrim. He is to lead a group of soldiers to the far south, avoiding Thalmor operatives and Imperial troops. He will meet up with Galmar in a camp in Falkreath’s wilderness, and their orders will be determined from there.  
  
It's so simple. Too simple, really. If he is to be responsible for men’s lives, he would like a little more guidance than ‘do your best and don’t get everyone killed.’ But both Galmar and Ulfric seem to trust him. “Nothing worse in the wilds than dragons,” Galmar says, grinning. “Just show up.”

He takes his leave of them before lunch. Jorleif presses a bag of septims into his hands and waves away Ralof’s protests. He tells himself that it is an early payment for services rendered, not a traditional payment for something else.

“Be safe,” Ulfric says, “and return victorious.” There might be the slightest hint of emotion in his voice. Barely discernible. But perhaps Ulfric hears it as well; he is silent for a space before speaking again. When he does his voice is cold, almost brutal. “I expect no less. I do not give titles as favours. Serve me as well as I expect you to. You will be rewarded handsomely.”

Ralof ducks his head to avoid looking him in the eyes, certain that if he does so everyone will see the flare there—Galmar Stone-Fist, the steward, some grizzled nobleman who has shown up out of nowhere and is staring at Ulfric, impatient. Desire stirs in him. He quashes it. It is inappropriate, and beneath the king to be gazed on by a subject. Even a subject he himself desires, too.  
  
Ah, the indelible mark of ownership. More permanent than branding, and at a fraction of the cost. _Gods damn you. You_ are _a schemer. You won._

* * *

In the inns he passes through, the bards play _The Dragonborn Comes_ over and over. It’s tiresome, but less tiresome than _The Lay of Bjorn and Ysgramor._  
  
Ralof goes south.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fic a few years before humans invented agriculture, shared it on the Skyrim Kink Meme, and then lost the entire thing when Delicious fell apart—serves me right for not keeping a completed draft! To celebrate my successful, thousand-page trawl, I'm sharing this edited and reposted version.
> 
> I truly and firmly believe every Jarl in Skyrim has at least one secret sex passage for all those steamy affairs.


End file.
